


Of Course You Know (This Means War) Remix

by Kernezelda



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 16:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11294610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kernezelda/pseuds/Kernezelda
Summary: Soon, very soon, Erik and Logan would return to New York, return to their true selves—and return to Charles.





	Of Course You Know (This Means War) Remix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gerec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gerec/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Time and Distance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3588831) by [Gerec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gerec/pseuds/Gerec). 



> Remix of [This Means War](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3588831/chapters/7968009)  
> Thanks to Keire-Ke for beta. :)

Professor Charles Xavier studied the packed classroom while setting up the wireless display from his laptop. Varying levels of genuine interest in the course material, the usual humming undercurrent of college mating rituals, worries over homework and tests, and low-grade curiosity about lunch created a familiar, warm tapestry of sound and thought as he turned, clicker in hand, to address his graduate class in Human Bio-Diversity 5001. 

“Mutants.” A slideshow of photos: a girl with mismatched eyes, blue and green; a pale, red-haired boy; a pair of bare, blue feet with prehensile toes; a grinning young black man with gills, photographed while sticking his head into a filled aquarium. “Not all humans are mutants, but all mutants are human.” Spikes of knee-jerk denial from young Stryker and Creed, but they hadn’t made it this far by failing to take heed of scientific reality.

Charles sailed on. “Mutations develop due to various causes internally and externally, spontaneously as well as inherited. We all know of Mendel’s peas and Franklin’s x-rays of DNA, the double helix that directs genetic blueprints for every living organism. We understand that Great Danes and Dachshunds are the same species, that they are cousins to wolves and coyotes and can thus breed to produce fertile offspring. Humans and mutants are the same, since mutants in the modern sense all descend from _Homo sapiens sapiens_.” Charles smiled at the front row. “The scientific name of human mutants is still under debate, but I think we all can agree that _Home sapiens mutandis_ is far less provoking to most than _Homo **superior**_.” A few laughs, and the lecture carried on as usual.

Afterward, Charles settled into his office for the remainder of the day, seeing a couple of students with questions on upcoming papers, checking his calendar and emails, brewing up a cup of Earl Grey to ward off a wave of late summer drowsiness. His own next paper needed a few more verifiable examples, so he’d be taking a short sabbatical after semester’s end for a bit of traveling. Unlocking his briefcase, Charles busied himself with his TA’s latest experimental data.

Eventually, the antique grandfather clock near the door struck eight. The brass pendulum swung back and forth, catching the lamplight and casting it in dull arcs across Charles’ dozing eyes. He woke, yawned, grimaced at a sip of tea long gone tepid, and gathered up several pages of McCoy’s notes to pack back into his briefcase.

Charles slid open his central desk drawer. He slipped out a package of cherry lozenges and popped one in to wash away the flavor of stale tea. Then he split the little box neatly along a bottom edge with the slide of a fingernail in an invisible seam. Charles used the micro-thin controls within to check the room for surveillance. He used his own senses as well, whipping a telepathic net across the suite of offices, the classrooms below, the labs above, the buildings adjacent. Satisfied, he transmitted a daily-changed code, waited for the near-silent ping, then spoke into a Bluetooth-like headset pulled from the same drawer. “Director Fury. How goes the mission?”

*

It wasn’t that Charles didn’t object to suppression of mutations save for safety or as medically required, but this mission against Hydra required bulletproof personas. Even if the mercenary covers were blown, the two-man team still wouldn’t reveal their abilities and thus their true identities--and S.H.I.E.L.D.’s involvement--unless their lives were at stake.

That was Charles’ immovable object, one he had simply not mentioned with regard to Fury’s irresistible force: if either agent reached a point of certain death or capture, the mental blocks would cascade to nothing, returning full self-knowledge and capacity. It shouldn’t come to that. They were among the most highly rated agents since the Black Widow, in constant competition with their favorite rivals, Cavalry and Quake.

Magneto and Wolverine of S.H.I.E.L.D.—or as Charles knew them, Erik Lehnsherr and Logan Howlett, the two men who’d separately and together won his heart. 

Not that they knew he knew their true profession. Not now, while the mission remained active. He’d left much of their memories intact, their long partnership, their natural friction, all that he could to ensure their smooth, habitual efficiency and oiled-machine-precision.

He’d even left himself, although not the complete truth: while simple lust could be re-directed and controlled, love proved far harder to hide and manipulate. All the same, the truth was this: Charles didn’t want to be forgotten by the men he loved any more than he wanted to tamper with their minds. But Hydra must be defeated, and neither the Avengers nor S.H.I.E.L.D. nor Captain Rogers’ cohort could do it alone.

So Erik and Logan remembered Charles, if only as a civilian lover, and Charles’ covert activities had never received official notice; Fury had a way of keeping secrets that only a telepath as strong as Charles might ever uncover. And if Fury’s status reports were accurate (and they almost always were), then soon, very soon, Erik and Logan would return to New York, return to their true selves—and return to Charles.

*

 _“Hello.”_ The voice glides into Charles’ ears, warm and caressing and possessive, distinct even in the din of the crowded pub. Long fingers slip from the top of his shoulder to the small of his back, and Charles turns his head, already beaming at Erik, who surveys the otherwise empty table and seats himself at Charles’ side, his natural heat soaking at once into Charles’ ribs. “Did you miss me?”

“Were you gone?” Charles asks, brows rising, and then laughs and leans over to meet Erik’s demanding kiss. Erik’s arm wraps around him, dragging them closer together, his gaze penetrating, molten with desire.

“Not long enough to forget this,” he murmurs. Fingertips frame Charles’ jaw, tease under his ear, slot themselves into dark waves of hair. Eyes grey as steel under the pub’s dim light rove Charles’ face, their weight near-tangible. “You look good.”

Charles takes Erik’s free hand into his. He lattices their fingers together, cupping warmth within; he brings their joined hands up and presses a quick, firm kiss to the back of Erik’s. “You, too. Your trip must have gone well.”

“Yes.” Perfunctory, as if already forgotten in the face of Erik’s current goal: leaning in to nip at Charles’ neck, just under his ear, pressing the tip of his tongue to the spot to soothe, still cradling Charles’ jaw. “Work talk later. You in my bed, now.”

“Without a by your leave?” Charles asks, husky-voiced, desire flooding his limbs. “Tsk, Mr. Lehnsherr.”

_“Charles.”_

*

They wind up in Charles’ spacious flat, since it’s closer. Charles divests his backside of Erik’s fervent exploratory survey and heads straight through to his bedroom, leaving Erik to inspect the windows and door, balcony and fire escape. He monitors Erik’s approach, following the trail of garments Charles left like breadcrumbs. Charles hasn’t wasted the minutes of Erik’s long-ingrained security habits. He’s arranged himself on the wide bed to best advantage, back propped against a small hillock of pillows, legs sprawling, a condom and his favorite hot cinnamon lube on the bedside table. A towel-covered cushion under his hips tilts them up in open invitation.

Erik prowls into the bedroom. He’s slim and straight and lethal, a blade painted in gold and ochre by the setting sun’s fiery light pouring through the wide window. His eyes gleam with liquid heat, fix on Charles’ before jerking down to where Charles’ cock juts toward his belly, balls tight and hole already shining with lube. Erik’s Adam’s apple bobs. He stalks forward. Loses his turtleneck, his trousers, his socks and shoes without ever stripping that sense of ever-present menace.

Charles’ blood surges. He licks his lips, tilts his head and catches Erik’s eyes again, draws him down and down without moving a muscle until Erik crawls up the bed to straddle him at the hips. Erik folds forward, enclosing Charles within the cage of his arms and legs. He pins Charles’ wrists and plunders his mouth with a hot, enveloping kiss—more consuming than giving, until he’s taken his fill. Until his lips soften and the kiss becomes communion, reunion.

They tangle together, limbs twisting. Charles moans with the stroke and slip of their cocks between them, Erik’s dry skin catching and sliding by turns along the slickness of Charles’. Long thighs clamp around Charles’ hips; Erik holds his shoulders firmly to roll them over without losing contact. Then it’s Charles’ turn to bend down, to pay tribute to Erik’s lean strength with kisses and licks and nips to the scars here and there, attesting survival, to the smooth curves of muscle in shoulders, biceps, to the breadth of Erik’s chest, the gracile clavicles, the hollow between which calls for a mark to be sucked and bitten there for anyone to see.

Erik’s nipples taste of salt, soap, turgid and pink until Charles’ lips drag darker color to the surface. It’s been so long, and although Charles’ phenomenal memory can recall with holographic clarity any chosen instant, the delight and hunger Erik’s skin drives him to is always a surprise. Charles nibbles at Erik’s jaw, minute stubble and the small scar over the upper lip the only disruptions in a clean-shaven plane of cheek. The faint bitter tang of aftershave lingers.

Erik maps Charles in return, hands roving from shoulders to elbows to wrists, sliding with eager firmness across his chest, tracing the sensitive skin over his ribs, tickling at his belly button while deftly avoiding Charles’ straining cock. Charles groans into Erik’s neck and reaches between them, grabs one of Erik’s wandering hands. “If I wanted a pat-down, I’d call a cop,” he says. He takes a nipple between his teeth, stares gimlet-eyed at Erik’s sharp, white grin. Applies pressure.

“Kinky.” But Erik takes him in hand, knuckles rubbing his stomach, long fingers wrapping around and… He stops. Charles deepens his bite. Under him, Erik gasps, but doesn’t move. “Get on my cock,” he orders. “I want to see you sliding down, me filling you up.” His eyes gleam in the last light of the day.

Charles licks reddened flesh to soothe his bite, then wriggles backward, making a show of swaying his arse before rising upright on his knees, mouth opening on a high moan when Erik twists his loose grip before letting go, sensation flying through Charles’ nerve endings. He’s already prepared himself, but he grabs the lube and condom. Sits back on Erik’s thighs, enjoying the way Erik’s gaze follows the bounce of Charles’ thick cock, the way the cooling evening air makes the cinnamon lube tingle on his skin. Erik’s hard, too, of course, a veritable tower of joy. Charles scrupulously rolls on the condom, then warms a palmful of slippery fluid before coating Erik’s shaft from crown to root. Finger-paints the taut scrotum with the excess, presses two fingers along the perineum and teases at Erik’s hole to watch it crinkle and furl.

Erik reaches down to grip Charles’ thighs, rolling his shoulders and shuddering, perspiration shining on his skin. Charles positions himself, strokes Erik’s shaft once, twice, squeezes the head and twists on the third pass to make Erik groan, to make him buck—and then _slides_ , just enough to engulf the thick crown of Erik’s gorgeous cock.

It’s hard not to slam down, to take Erik fully into himself, but it’s been weeks since they were last together, and he (Erik, as well, it’s all that’s filled his mind since leaving the pub) wants to make this reunion last. 

Erik looks at Charles as if he’s never seen anything better, and his mind and body are one with desire: passion and love entwined with wonder, with affection so rare to anyone not admitted to Erik’s narrow circle of friends; but here in Charles’ bed, Erik lets his guard down, allows Charles to _see_ , to know him as no other does.

That in itself is worth every effort on Charles’ part to keep his lover safe, as much as he can without interfering with Erik’s chosen work; as much as he can, without controlling Erik and destroying the trust between them. Erik grabs Charles’ hips; there will be marks later, and Charles will touch them and smile when he’s alone. But now he’s biting his lower lip, squeezing his pelvic muscles tight as he can. His thighs tremble with the slow degrees of his descent, his whole body wet, face and neck and chest flushing red--

_apple-cheeked, cherry-lipped, iris-blue eyes_

The last light slips away. Erik reaches out to flick on the bedside lamp. His hair’s dark with sweat. The arch of his back presses his head deeply into Charles’ pillows, but slitted eyes never leave Charles, slide from his half-lidded gaze down the curve of his body, to the rigid line of his cock, and back up again because there is no part of Charles he doesn’t covet. It’s gratifying enough that Charles rewards him with a sudden quick rise and fall, muscles vice-tight so that Erik groans and thrusts in return. Charles reaches back behind himself (agreeably altering the angle of Erik’s cock enough to nudge his prostate-- _a sweep of extra pleasure_ ) to close slick fingers around Erik’s scrotum and play with his balls, pressing blunt fingernails into sensitive flesh, leering slyly at Erik’s gasps and tightening grip.

It seems to take hours to slide down, Charles’ thighs aching with that last inch, but he’s finally got Erik exactly where he wants him, _inside_ Charles, joined flesh to flesh. And it’s

_“Splendid.”_

Erik tosses his head, flicks away sweat beading at his hairline. He rolls his eyes. “Thanks.” Indulgently, he pats Charles’ hip, eyeing a pink finger mark with proprietary satisfaction.

Charles sits rigid a moment, entirely unwilling to move and disturb the perfection of their present position; his whole body lights up with pleasure, veins hot with lust and cock bump-bump-bumping blindly against his abdomen, quivering with need.

“Now,” he says, chest heaving with every breath, Erik’s body solid beneath him, Erik’s shaft firm and deliriously satisfying within. “Darling, put your hands on my cock and make me see stars.”

Oh, and Erik doesn’t tease anymore, but obeys at once, wraps one long-fingered hand round Charles’ shaft and the other behind his balls, pulls with the latter and pumps with the former, rough and fast and _intent_ , face taut and lips drawn tight at the corners, savage with concentration. Charles shouts his orgasm to the ceiling, head thrown back with utter abandon. He comes in spurts all over Erik’s hands and belly and chest, and Erik comes inside him, though contained by the condom. Charles slumps backward, slipping sadly loose from the slow-softening length of Erik’s cock.

After a moment, he lifts his head. “I think we missed the towel.”

Erik barks a laugh, and throws a pillow at him.

*

In the morning, Charles wakes first. He’s cuddled little spoon to Erik’s big spoon. He smiles, one of Erik’s arms around his waist, one of Erik’s legs caught between his own, Erik’s soft breaths puffing against the back of Charles’ neck. They’re together, they’re healthy, and now it’s time to take down the walls around Erik’s memories.

Charles doesn’t have to move. He works with care, with delicacy. He undoes what he did. And then he goes back to sleep, snug in his lover’s arms.

The next time he wakes, it’s to Erik stirring behind him. “Charles,” a low mumble. Erik’s other arm joins the first, embracing Charles and eliminating the already miniscule distance between their bodies. A soft press of lips to the back of his neck. Charles sighs, allowing sleep to accede to wakefulness. He rolls over to face Erik, whose lashes sweep up and down a couple of times before he opens his eyes.

He smiles, sleepy and affectionate. “Charles.”

His eyes widen. “Charles!”

Charles watches, entranced as always by the bright, dynamic flow of Erik’s mind, his thoughts so rarely exposed in tightly controlled features. He watches and waits; and when Erik shakes his head and closes his eyes and then _looks_ at Charles as if Charles is his lover and his husband and the love of his life, it’s then that Charles lifts his face to meet Erik bending down to him, and they share a kiss only barely impaired by morning breath and the damp spot under his hip.

They breathe each other in for a time.

Erik nuzzles Charles’ throat, drags a hand down his belly to flick idly at morning exuberance. “When are you planning to reel Logan back in?”

*

Charles will be at the tail-end of a Wednesday lecture when he senses Logan nearby, hunting him down. He’ll fall silent for a moment, a smile soft and sweet replacing his enthusiasm for his subject until Charles realizes that he’s drifting. “Ahem,” he’ll say to the students’ raised eyebrows, ignoring with practice a few hazy visions of himself in a less-than-professional setting. “Study the next two chapters, and make sure to attend one of the labs with Mr. McCoy before next Monday’s class. There will be a quiz Monday, and a paper due next Friday.”

Grumbling students trundling out will part like the Red Sea around a lumberjack transplanted into their urban world; a burly fellow in plaid and jeans and a quite individual hairstyle. Said lumberjack will saunter down the auditorium steps with silent grace, a predator in motion, and Charles will fumble with the snaps of his briefcase, breathless as he turns just in time to be swept from his feet.

He'll melt into Logan, smell pine and tobacco and aloe, allow himself to be held, treasured. Logan’s eyes, warm and clear as a good cup of tea, will drive home his pleasure in holding Charles close, hearing his heart pick up its pace, smelling Charles’ fabric softener and his cologne: bergamot and vetiver, leather and sandalwood, a heady mix that Logan loves on Charles.

“Are you done here?” Logan will ask, eyes hooded as he whispers against Charles’ lips. “Is anyone else gonna come in?” He’ll cock his head with a wicked grin, and Charles will nod and then shake his head, half-intoxicated already by Logan’s half-feral mind, focused on ridding Charles of his clothes and bending him in half on the table, regardless of the open door.

 _“No!”_ Charles will hiss, even as he sees it all too clearly: his thighs locked around Logan’s hips, Logan’s broad hands around his waist, holding him steady while Logan drives into him with wrecking strength until he’s as limp as an unstarched shirt, so Logan can pick him up and carry him away—and here Logan’s fantasies tend to fragment, ending up in his mountain cabin more often than not, instead of his perfectly decent city flat or Charles’ very nice flat near the university.

*

“No,” Charles says, and shakes a finger across the auditorium at Logan, who lounges in the doorway while students chatter past.

“Aw, come on, Chuck.” Logan got most of _Charles’_ fantasy, smirks as he kicks loose the doorstop and lets the doors close. He swaggers down the stairs, swings himself up on stage, eyes Charles with great meaning and pats the table. “I’m pretty sure you can keep anyone who _does_ come in from noticing.”

“I am not fucking you here,” Charles says, pink-cheeked, determined. He picks up his briefcase and holds it in front of his tenting trousers. “I will be glad to fuck you in every room of my flat, however.”

He heads toward Logan, slows to a stop in front of him. Gazes at him and loves him and projects it with every iota of his heart. Logan’s eyes crinkle and he laughs out loud. Grabs Charles and sweeps him up into a bridal carry, jumps off the stage and strides off like a conquering hero.

Charles lets him.

Charles’ classes are over for the day, and there is nothing to stop them from celebrating Logan’s safe return. He waves cheerily to Moira as Logan carries him toward the car park, senses the sparkle of her amusement in tandem with hearing her open laugh. Moira’s his best friend; she’ll have every torrid moment from him at their next lunch date. Logan’s motorcycle is even more battered than the last time Charles saw it, but it purrs to life like a champ. Logan dutifully dons a helmet as Charles does the same. He wouldn’t normally, but he doesn’t yet remember his healing factor. Charles gladly wraps his arms around Logan’s waist, burying his face between broad shoulders. It’s good, so very good.

After a couple of streets, he notes, “This isn’t the way home. Yours or mine.”

“Been thinking ‘bout what _you_ were thinking ‘bout back there.”

“Oh?” Charles looks over Logan’s shoulder. “Oh, no.”

Logan guns the motor.

*

Charles hadn’t even noticed the saddlebag. Logan hadn’t thought of it once, and yet here they are, sprawling in a shaded, secluded alcove of Central Park, a checked blanket beneath them, scattered sandwich wrappings and ripe strawberries and a bottle of Charles’ own quite expensive champagne strewn between them.

Logan lies facing Charles, his eyes deep and heated, his expression relaxed and unguarded, a rare privilege to see. He cushions his head on his arm, and walks the fingers of his other hand along Charles’ hip.

They’re both naked. Logan was perfectly right when he said Charles could keep anyone from seeing them, although Central Park is not significantly less public than Charles’ classroom, but Charles is doing his best not to let Logan see how much he enjoys using his power like this to ensure their privacy. It’s far more exciting than he wants to let on, being naked in public, and anticipating—

“Show-off,” Logan says, disproving him at once. He smiles slow and wicked, sits up and tosses a strawberry at Charles. Charles plucks it from the air. He sticks out his tongue, then tilts his head down so he can look from under his lashes at Logan. He makes a show of licking and sucking the berry, bigger around than Logan’s thumb, red and plump and juicy. He bites it in half and lets the juice drip down.

Logan takes the bait, of course. Growls and launches himself across the bit of space separating them, pushes Charles down firmly and steals the last bit of the strawberry right from Charles’ lips—and then steals a kiss, another and another.

He handles Charles with care, not as if he’s a fragile vase, but as if he’s precious. He lavishes Charles’ skin with caresses, slow strokes between his thighs that make Charles moan and spread them wider. He fondles Charles’ wrists, sturdy yet smaller than Logan’s, tickles the soles of his feet to make him squirm before tossing them over Logan’s shoulders. He devotes himself to driving Charles mad by sucking and licking the joints of his thighs, the delicate skin of his inner elbows, his nipples and the soft skin and dark hair leading from Charles’ belly toward his groin. All of it slow, drugging, mesmerizing.

“Please,” Charles begs, flexing his ankles, crossing them behind Logan’s neck to drag him closer. “Now, please.” The blanket has developed a wrinkle right beneath Charles’ left shoulder blade, but it’s barely a distraction.

Logan reaches toward the saddlebag, draws out a travel-sized container of lube and a condom. He holds the condom up. “I haven’t been with anyone else.” Sunlight dapples through the branches overhead, stipples Logan’s face with light. “You can check, if you want.” He points to his skull, but Charles already knows. It’s a benefit of telepathy, to be able to know everything about a person. It also means that Charles rarely experiences being able to simply trust another’s word, but… He does trust Logan, because Logan’s heart is simple and true, and Logan is a man of his word.

He doesn’t ask if Charles is clean. He _trusts_ Charles.

So. “I trust you,” Charles says, from his ridiculous position: naked in Central Park with his legs in the air, wrapped around an equally naked man and about to engage in illegal public sex. “Of course I trust you, you ridiculous man.” And he reaches up and pulls Logan down and kisses him with nearly a year’s worth of pent-up longing, pouring it directly into his thickly-haired head.

“Chuck,” Logan murmurs when he can catch a breath, and laughs when Charles swats his arm. “Ok, give me a sec’ and I’ll give you what you’ve been missing.”

He tips the lube cap one-handed, pours the whole bottle, thoroughly covers every inch of his cock—and Charles’. “I want to feel you in me,” he rumbles, “and I suspect you’re gonna fall asleep if I go first. Too much rich food.” He pokes Charles’ belly with a wet finger, winking, then shakes his shoulders to dislodge Charles’ legs. Logan kisses Charles’ inner knees in passing. “I’ll do all the work,” he advises. “You just lie there lookin’ pretty for me.”

Logan swings a leg over Charles’ body. He kneels, a glorious beast of a man, strong and vigorous, backlit by sunlight dripping through leaves. Around them, distant voices shout, completely unaware of what’s happening in broad daylight. Birds fill the air with chatter and song. A squirrel rustles across a branch. It’s a perfect day to be outside, and Charles can’t imagine a more perfect way to spend it.

If Erik were there, too… That day will come once both of his loves are whole again. For now, Charles and Logan are fine and dandy on their own.

Charles, obedient as can be, throws his arms over his head and doesn’t help at all when Logan takes his cock in hand to guide it toward Logan’s lowering body. Charles allows himself to receive the pleasure being given, his own expression surely dazed with sensation as Logan thumbs his foreskin, soft and fragile and filled with nerve endings, as Logan _pushes_ Charles’ cock into himself. Logan’s mouth hangs wide, breath hitching, eyes rolling back. Charles curls his fists into the blanket fabric and doesn’t thrust up into tight heat, lies rigid and waits for Logan. It seems minutes before Logan can move again, but he does so with purpose, sliding down fast until Charles is buried to the root. He starts to rock. Rolls his hips and rises, falls back and rocks again.

The rough motions drive his own breathing ragged, unrelenting stimulation from his arse to his spine, shuddering limbs flopping with abandon. He feels doll-like in Logan’s strong hands when Logan grabs him under his arms, drags him up to crush Logan’s cock between their bodies. Logan’s skin radiates heat, his face red with blood, his hands hot against Charles’ back, clutching him close. Their bodies jolt in tandem, rhythmic and fast. Charles’ heart beats double-time, the sound rushing through his inner ears.

He’s close, so close. Charles works his hands in between them, palms Logan’s broad chest, reveling in the strength, the slabs of muscle. He’s close, and so is Logan. Charles lifts his face and _bites_ Logan’s collarbone, pinches both of his nipples hard.

Logan roars and his eyes flare bright with danger and Charles comes and comes and comes.

They collapse, Logan tipping to one side so he doesn’t knock Charles breathless. Not that he isn’t already, and already curling into Logan’s side. Logan stares skyward, chest heaving. Red and gleaming with lube, his meaty cock thumps and wriggles across his lower belly, leaves a clear smear of fluid on tanned skin and dark whorls of hair. Charles licks his lips, staring.

“May I?” he asks, already twisting toward his goal. Logan rests a heavy hand on the back of his neck. “Go for it, but if you make me come, that’s it for the day. I’m not as young as you are, bub.”

“I’ll say,” Charles retorts, and snickers when Logan squeezes his neck. At this angle, half on his side and half on Logan, Charles just rests his weight on Logan’s ribs and squiggles forward, accidentally-not-on-purpose digging an elbow into said ribs on the way. Logan oofs, and in a clearly retaliatory measure, works his hand between Charles’ thighs to thrust two wet fingers at once into his arse. Charles yelps, pelvis jerking forward and then back against Logan’s hand.

Logan pushes Charles’ lower knee out until his hips lie flat, pushes it farther until Charles’ legs spread enough to give him a better view and better access. He starts working his fingers in and out, lifting his head to slant a lazy smile Charles’ direction. Charles’ face burns; he’s glad his ability isn’t plasma-related like the Summers boys; in this state, he might start a forest fire.

Sucking in a deep breath, Charles wipes away as much lube as he can from Logan’s thick and lovely shaft. Like Charles, Logan has a foreskin. Charles wraps his lips around the dripping head and swallows. Hard. He feels as much as hears Logan’s breath burst out like a punch to the gut; he applies suction to the mouthful of heated flesh with firm deliberation. It takes both hands to fully enwrap Logan’s cock; he pumps with steady strokes, not too tight. The foreskin glides along the tissue beneath, an easy pull and stretch that notches sensation right up; Charles tastes Logan and remnants of flavorless lube, and tries to time his breathing and the rhythm of his hands to Logan’s fingers twisting and searching inside him.

He gives up coherent thought when Logan hits the X-spot.

After that, it’s just gasping and squeezing and squealing and swallowing, trying to get all of Logan’s big cock into his mouth without choking, and trying not to kick Logan in the head when two long, thick fingers are replaced by three and then four. It's been so long since Charles has had anything but his own touch and toys. Logan takes his sweet time working Charles open, that same care he's always given, even while Charles pours burning, naked lust and arousal directly into Logan's mind. Slow, methodical, unrelenting: Logan pushes deeper and deeper, incremental slide and twist. Charles groans, caught helplessly between wanting to thrust back against the fingers so skillfully drawing pleasure from him, a master fiddler playing him like a golden instrument, and the sheer pleasure of deepthroating, gulping Logan as if he could consume him, body and soul.

Charles’ cock is only a little hard when Logan’s last knuckles breach him after what seems like hours, but it’s only an afterthought to the sensations running rampant through his arse, his belly, his spine, every fiber of him thrumming at Logan’s direction. _Do it!_ he sends, mouth full of delicious cock, brain completely immobilized.

He peers through Logan’s eyes as Logan watches his own shining, sopping wet hand push fractionally deeper, stretching Charles’ lubed rim to near-translucence, pink and thin as paper. Charles freezes in place, can’t do anything more than suck by instinct, breathing through his nose, hands mindlessly clenching and unclenching as Logan fist-fucks him in near slow-motion.

The moan that escapes Charles isn't nearly the first. He can’t stop, and he doesn’t try; his shields are still up, so no one will hear a thing, no matter how loud either of them get. His very flesh seems to melt, all of Charles Xavier puddling to the ground, languid and eager for ravishment.

Deep in his throat, Logan’s cock quivers and shakes; under him, a perceptible tremor rocks Logan’s body. Charles senses how hard he’s been trying to hold back, but he won’t last much longer. Tightening his aching jaw with renewed purpose, Charles stabs his tongue at the underside of Logan’s cock, feels a wave of accomplishment when his nose nudges the hair at the base, finds the swell of testicles at his tongue-tip. _NOW!_

Logan lets go. He floods Charles’ mouth, semen fountaining back out and over his own groin, a splattering mess that Charles tries to catch every drop of, lips tight as he lifts his head slowly, pulling up around Logan’s cock and licking it clean as he goes. It’s smeared white on his lips and chin, down to his throat and trickling through the dark thatch of hair framing Logan’s slumping cock. Charles raises his chest and turns so Logan can see every claiming spatter dripping from swollen, cherry-red lips.

“For fuck’s sake, I think I’m dead.” Logan looks knocked out, eyes white at the edges, mind flaring with satiation. Licking his lips, he meets Charles’ gaze dead-on. He clenches his fist.

Charles shouts and digs his nails into Logan’s very convenient thighs and locks every muscle in his well-muscled arse in a vice-grip around Logan’s wrist. He’s going to keep him there forever, knuckles pressing on that particular spot until they’re both simply dead of too-good sex or starvation, whichever comes first.

“Mags might not like it if we fuck ourselves to death in Central Park.”

_What!_

Charles whips round—as much as he can, with Logan’s hand right up his arse—to stare.

Logan lightly slaps Charles’ buttock with his free hand. “It wore off,” he says. “Your mind-whammy.” He shrugs. “You know I’ve got some kind of resistance.” He rubs the spot he slapped, considers, slaps the other cheek. Charles' body thrills to the touch, his mind swimming with pleasure and confusion.

“When?” he manages, many seconds later. Charles doesn’t sense anger or distress. Logan seems to have accepted without qualm Charles’ interference with his brain. His skin prickles; he feels awkward, out-of-joint, if they’re to have a serious discussion with Logan’s hand where it is.

“’Bout two months back. We’d reached the final stage of the mission, had the target bunker in sight.” Logan catches Charles’ slight uneasiness, cocks his head. “I was thinkin’ about you, about wishing I could see you again before the last push. In case I didn’t make it.” He rubs Charles’ lower back, slides his hand down to pat a sturdy thigh. Carefully, he begins to free his other hand. Charles loosens himself as much as he can, post-orgasm lethargy considerably abated by Logan’s words.

“I remembered our last good-bye. I remembered what happened before, Erik gripping my shoulder while you set your fingers on my temple. And it all came back.” Hand finally slipping free, Logan shakes the cramps loose, lube pattering to the ground. He grabs a hand towel from the saddlebag, wets it with bottled water. 

“I agreed, and still do.” He begins to tend to Charles: gentle, slow, careful. Gradually, Charles relaxes under sure hands, a deep massage from thighs to buttocks, from buttocks to lower back. “You did what we needed, what we asked for.”

Logan finally eases out from under Charles, kneels up and helps Charles kneel up, too, nearly boneless. Logan shakes his head a little, and cleans Charles’ face, his throat, carefully wipes down every finger, his breath steady again, warm as he leans in close enough for his hair to brush Charles’. “I trust you, Charles. You know I love you.”

Charles allows himself to sink forward into Logan’s sure and unwavering arms. “I do,” he murmurs into Logan’s neck, pressing a kiss into the beating vein there. “Let’s go home to Erik.”

Logan busses him on the temple, pushes him back a little, runs a lascivious eye up and down. “We should probably get dressed first.” 

Charles laughs, and Logan kindly doesn’t remark on the accompanying tears.

They’re home. His loves are whole, and safe, and _home_.


End file.
